


Infections from Morpheus

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's best to not overanalyze dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infections from Morpheus

**Author's Note:**

> This one is cheesy too but it's about dreams so it's allowed to be cheesy. Don't be afraid to let me know if something is glaringly wrong in this fic (like the characterization or something that messes with canon). Seriously I'll take all the critique I can get. Hope you enjoy it!

The first dream terrifies him. He is drowning in dirt and sand, trying to claw his way to solid ground. Each panicked inhale sends clumps of clay and rock rattling down his throat, filling his lungs and pulling him farther into the earth. His lips are cracked and hard and his mouth is dry and bleeding. No scream makes it past his throat, guttural moans and whimpers are his only cries for help. He scrambles with raw fingertips against the gravely earth but his efforts only serve to strip skin and meat from bone. 

He struggles and he fights but the ground swallows him up to his chest, locking his legs tight in the soil. When he looks up into the yawning abyss above him, he sees something. He sees a statue.

There Enjolras stands, forged from stone and marble. He glares down at Grantaire with contempt carved into each line of his face, yet he slowly kneels and extends his hand. Grantaire, relieved, lunges forward for it as best he can. He takes the smooth hand in his and tugs, trying to pull himself free. _Enjolras is here, Enjolras will save me_.

But he is not to be saved. The hand, as if ruined by his touch, cracks and crumbles into dust. Grantaire can do nothing but watch in horror as the rest of Enjolras's body chips and shatters until the statue of a man is reduced to nothing more than a fine powder.

And then Grantaire is drowning in Enjolras, too.

He resurfaces to consciousness very slowly, sometime after he was lost to the earth. He stays in bed for a long while, breathing heavily through his nose and anxiously burying his fingers in his sweat-soaked hair. The dream leaves him shaken for a moment, but he gropes around on the nightstand and finds relief in a bottle.

He takes great care around Enjolras the next few days, as if the man will be reduced to dust like he had been in the dream. Grantaire's behavior isn't so odd that it attracts attention, but he is far more quiet and more somber than usual. He wonders what would happen if he was in trouble, if Enjolras would try to save him, if he would accept the help, if he would bring about Enjolras's downfall. The last thought stirs panic in him so violently that he feels his throat constrict and and dry up. It takes a lot of liquid remedy to forget about the dream, but forget he does.

That is, until the next dream.

-

It's less of a nightmare and more of a surreal stroll through Grantaire's absinth-induced sleep. It's the kind of dream that leaves you wondering if you ate some off food or maybe read something a bit odd in the newspaper that day.

An octopus floats up to him. It takes him a moment to realize it's Jehan, and his legs have mouths that speak in Courfeyrac's voice. The tentacles gently nudge Grantaire along the parisian streets, where everything is underwater. Grantaire isn't drowning, so he doesn't mind. They pass wine shops and familiar apartments, careful not to bump into the furniture and decorations suspended in the water. People swim by, people he doesn't recognize, but Grantaire trusts Jean and Courfeyrac enough to keep going. He is pushed forward until they arrive at a grand monument. 

Enjolras stands at the very top. Blood seeps from a wound in his chest and paints the water red, but he is proud and beautiful. Under his feet is a body, pierced through the heart by a flagpole in Enjolras's hands. The flag is red, the color of the blood permeating the water.

Grantaire tries to run to the monument, but a current keeps him stationary. Courfeyrac's eight voices cheer from all around him as he sprints against the rushing water. He grows frustrated and the current grows choppy, filling his vision with bubbles until he can't see Enjolras any longer. He lets out an aggravated roar and the water suddenly recedes.

Jehan is knocked back and Courfeyrac goes with him, out of Grantaire's reach. He spares them a moment of concern before he sees Enjolras falling from atop the monument. Panic sinks its claws into his heart and he takes off in a dead sprint as if to catch Enjolras before the ground does. The red flag ripples as the wind grabs it and pulls it to massive proportions. It creates an animated backdrop to Enjolras's plummeting body, like great red wings.

But Enjolras is not flying.

No matter how fast he wills his legs to move, Grantaire doesn't reach the monument in time. Just before Enjolras hits the ground, the massive flag consumes him and lands in a huge red heap. Grantaire falls to his knees and brings the flag to his chest, screaming for Enjolras. It's not a scream that suggests anguish and heartbreak so much as confusion. _Where the hell did you go?_ He buries his face in the flag and imagines he can feel Enjolras there, just out of reach.

When he looks back up, he is in a field. The sun is shining and all of his friends are dead.

Their battered bloodstained bodies are scattered all through the tall grass. Jehan is no longer an octopus, but a broken young man. Courfeyrac isn't far from his side. He is on his stomach with one arm extended, as if reaching for Marius, who lies a few meters to his right. Bossuet and Joly are a bit farther away, with an anonymous woman between them. Grantaire cannot see her face, but his mind whispers _Musichetta_. Bahorel and Feuilly are in particularly bad shape, as if something tore them apart from the inside out. Combeferre's body is the most stiff looking, his eyes are wide but unseeing. All of his knowledge and peaceful strength is gone.

Grantaire walks slowly, pulling the flag behind him. It blankets the corpses like a great red sea. It isn't until he reaches Enjolras's body that he realizes he's crying fat ugly tears. The man lies on a bed of purple flowers without a scratch on him. Grantaire leans over his body and one teardrop falls, hitting his cheek. It turns black and thick on impact, like tar, and burns Enjolras's clear skin. Grantaire can't help but laugh unhappily at that. _I've done it, I've become Zephyrus, to ruin Hyacinth_. He finally pulls the flag over Enjolras as well, and walks along in the empty field until the dream dissolves.

Grantaire wakes up in an empty tin bath, which isn't an entirely new experience. Like the last time he used a tub as a bed, he is remarkably stiff and uncomfortable. He picks up the bottle in his lap and turns it over, _empty_ , before standing up and stretching out. 

Hours later, he runs into Courfeyrac and Marius in the streets. He goes to shake Courfeyrac's hand, but is pulled into a cozy hug instead. Grantaire returns it gladly, basking in the feeling of the warm, living body in his arms. He wants to mention the dream, wants to whisper _I'm glad you're alive,_ but decides against it. The three of them walk together and Courfeyrac fervently speaks of the political climate. He and Marius go back and forth for a while, with Grantaire standing between them mostly silently save for a few teasing quips here and there.

Courfeyrac nudges him in the ribs and whispers about a meeting in the Musain that evening. Grantaire rolls his eyes, but there is no question that he will be attending. He misses the company of his friends, and wishes to see them all unharmed.

And unharmed they are. Though Grantaire almost doesn't join them on account of the bottle in his hand and the girl in his arms. Feuilly puts a calloused yet gentle hand on his shoulder and tugs him away from the lady, but lets him keep the bottle.

As he takes his seat, he is pleased to see all of his friends in good health (except for Bossuet, who is looking a little green in the face).  They speak excitedly to each other and Grantaire is almost envious of their passion.

Enjolras smiles maybe twice through the entire night, but he speaks with energy and vigor. Some people cheer him on, or clap for him when he is finished speaking. He says what most are thinking, he swears to put thoughts into action.

Grantaire scoffs at their reckless idealism but cannot bring himself to leave. He is never more content than in the company of these men, and Grantaire has never seen anything more captivating than Enjolras in elation. The set of his shoulders, the spark in his eyes, the way he enunciates each word with strength and conviction, it's almost overwhelming.

After one of Enjolras's comments, Grantaire interjects a sarcastic remark before he can stop himself. He finds himself saying anything he can to get Enjolras's attention lately. The look he gets in return, however, silences him immediately. His cheeks burn and he feels like he's overstepped, but he doesn't stop watching Enjolras for the rest of the night.

-

Nobody dies in the next dream. Grantaire spends the first bit of it lying on his side with someone's arms wrapped around him. The ornate pattern on the waistcoat makes him think Courfeyrac, the voice proves him right. He tries to ask, _Why the hell are you hugging me?_  but gets a mouthful of cotton-clad shoulder for his trouble.

Courfeyrac speaks in tongues and holds Grantaire in a warm, solid embrace. It's good at first, he feels drunk and giddy and accepted. He feels like he belongs here, with a friend pressed to his side. But his mind twists in ugly directions, like always. He starts to feel antsy and unworthy of his the affection. He feels disgusted.

He squirms, trying to break Courfeyrac's hold on him, but the arms stay locked firmly in place. Grantaire starts to thrash, pounding on Courfeyrac's chest with his fists. He feels ashamed and claustrophobic and _afraid_. There is nothing more terrifying to him at the moment than the thought of destroying another one of his friends.

After struggling a bit more, Grantaire gets an arm free. Suddenly Courfeyrac's body is gone, and Grantaire is on a frozen lake. He wobbles unsteadily on his hands and knees, fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick ice. He mentally kicks himself for rejecting Courfeyrac's embrace. It's _cold_ out here.

Violent shudders send his body into grotesque convulsions. Grantaire shakes so hard that he looks like a man possessed. He tries to rise up onto his feet, but his legs wont stop trembling. He pulls himself across the wasteland with his elbows and knees. Snow falls gently, covering the ice in an inch of powder that crunches under his palms. He screams for Courfeyrac, but hears only the howling of the wind in return.

Grantaire crawls for an eternity before something catches under his palm. He pries it from the sheet of ice and shakes the snow off of it. It is a coat, a red coat.

It is a coat Enjolras owns.

The garment burns as if its threads were woven with fire. Grantaire revels in the warmth and tries to put it on. It's tight around the shoulders and maybe a little too long for his taste, but it sets his skin ablaze.

Literally.

Before long, Grantaire feels overwhelmed by the heat. Flames curl up against his skin from under the jacket, but he refuses to take it off. He bites his tongue and digs his fingers into his arms because _he can handle this,_ he can show Enjolras that he isn't weak or afraid. He can be strong, too.

And if he is consumed by Enjolras's presence, then so be it.

-

Grantaire is startled awake by screaming in the streets. He stands slowly, wiping away the sticky sweat from around his collar, and looks out the window. A woman is in the middle of the road, shrieking unintelligibly about something. Her clothes are torn and filthy, her face is ashen. In her arms is a silent, unmoving child bundled in what looks like torn drapes. Grantaire feels himself grow sick when she thrusts the infant toward a passing couple, and it's clear that the child is no longer alive.

Grantaire pushes himself away from the window and falls heavily into an armchair. What a shit way to start the day.

At one point he tries to get up, tries to go outside. He gets his front door open before the idea of outside becomes unbearable. The sun sends daggers through his eyes, the noise makes his head spin, the dust and dirt makes him choke. The woman isn't screaming any longer. She is sobbing over the body in her arms as two young women try to help her to her feet.

A sickening churning tears Grantaire's stomach to bits. He stumbles away from the door, leaving it ajar. He finds himself in the small kitchen, still shaking and sweating while his insides twist into knots. He goes to the small dirty mirror hanging slightly crooked on the wall, bracing his hands on either side of it.

Sweat dampens his pale waxen skin, bleeding into the front of his shirt. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and he only has a moment to look at them before he feels bile rising in his throat. He turns away from his refelction quickly and vomits into a wash basin. It's so acrid that Grantaire feels another wave of sickness coming on.

He throws up again, and again, and again, until his throat is raw and the scent turns his saliva sour. His entire body is shaking with the effort of staying up straight, and the pain in his stomach feels like needles trying to force their way out.

Misery sits like a stone in his throat, choking the life out of him. Against his better judgement, Grantaire throws open the cabinets and drawers in search for any alcohol. He grabs the first thing he finds without reading the label. It's sturdy and it's full and it feels like a solution.

He drinks and he drinks and he drinks some more. When his eyes close, he does not dream.

-

Grantaire is pulled from blissful stillness by shouting. The voice is male this time, and very close. His eyes open and see nothing but soft shapes. Good job, eyes.

Whoever is shouting seems to be getting impatient. They start hitting him lightly on the cheek, which isn't doing much for the spikes that are drilling into his head. He tries to listen to what they're saying, but it appears someone jammed cotton into his ears while his mind was absent from his body.

Grantaire works up the concentration to raise his hand slightly, and it's immediately caught in a strong hold. He gets to savor the feeling for about three seconds before his mind slips away again.

-

The next time he opens his eyes, he can actually see. His ears are ringing slightly, but he can hear much better. There are voices near him, speaking quickly but softly. He lets out one hell of a groan and one of the voices jumps up.

Hello, Courfeyrac.

He looks a little concerned and a little angry, but relief is also apparent on his face. He sits on the end of the bed and dabs at Grantaire's forehead with a cloth. Grantaire asks why the hell there's a bunch of people gathered in his bedroom.

Courfeyrac mumbles about foolishness for a moment before helpfully adding, “You nearly killed yourself.”

Oh.

“We wanted to take you to the hospital,” another voice says, “But Fueilly knew where Joly was this afternoon and found him instead.” Grantaire lets his head loll to the side and discovers that the voice belongs to Jehan. Hello, Jehan.

Bossuet's voice then rises to his ears with an apology.  Grantaire is confused for a moment, but then remembers how ill he looked the other night.  He wants to shake his head and tell Bossuet to not blame himself, but moving makes him nauseous.

“You show symptoms of a nasty sickness,” a fourh voice pipes in, “The alcohol certainly didn't help.” That would be Joly, who is standing the farthest away, but smiling softly. Grantatire tries to thank him, but his tongue seems to be made of lead.

Courfeyrac just runs the cloth along his forehead again and mutters, _go back to sleep_.

Over the next few hours, days, maybe weeks as far as he knows, Grantaire fades in and out of consciousness. Not once does he wake up alone. There is always at least one person by his side with a pail to vomit into and a glass of water to soothe his aching throat. He tries to speak, but his thoughts are erratic and tangential. Nothing comes out of his mouth but garbled whispers. And vomit, can't forget the vomit. God knows Grantaire never will.

It takes a long while, but his fever does eventually break. Jehan is there with a cold cloth as Grantaire sweats it out. He tells Grantaire about Courfeyrac seeing the door open and wandering inside, about the liquor bottle and Courfeyrac's initial panic. He tells Grantaire about Bahorel carrying him bridal style to his bedroom and the shifts everyone took watching over him, about how he was never alone in his apartment for more than a few hours at a time. 

Grantaire feels guilty and grateful all at once. He tries apologizing but Jehan immediately shushes him and gives him a glass of water. 

It takes some time, but Grantaire bounces back. Jehan stops by one late afternoon and takes him to the meeting in the Musain. He immediately goes for a bottle of wine, but Joly is there in time to guide him away from the alcohol and into the back room. He begrudgingly allows himself to be pulled along.

Though he tries, he cannot dodge Enjolras's eye for long. One thought had been bouncing around in his head since his first coherent talk with Jehan: _Did Enjolras watch over me as well_? The question is perched on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to ask. Enjolras doesn't seem angry when he looks at Grantaire, he seems tired. He seems disappointed.

“So I see you're feeling better,” Enjolras says at one point, “I should hope you will seek out the help of a doctor, not a bottle, the next time you become ill.”

Grantaire smiles a little shakily. “Wouldn't dream of using a liquor cure again,” he says almost mockingly, “I don't think Courfeyrac's heart could take another scare, and my apartment stinks like death.”

Someone behind him grumbles in agreement about the smell as Courfeyrac gently shoves at his shoulder and whines something in defense. His smile falls when Enjolras shakes his head a little and turns away to speak with Combeferre. Grantaire decides to keep his question to himself.

Joly gets Grantaire away from alchohol nearly the entire night, up until everyone is preparing to leave. All in all it's been a good evening, no fever, no vomiting, no headaches. After Joly heads out, Grantaire gets ahold of a bottle of wine with a wink to a barmaid and exits the café.

He really doesn't expect Enjolras to be standing outside. Grantaire freezes, and for a moment he feels like he's stepping up to the executioner's block.

“Grantaire,” he says quietly, “Walk with me?”

Grantaire swallows his uneasiness and walks alongside Enjolras. They're not going in the direction of Grantaire's appartment, or Enjolras's. They're just going. Grantaire decides he's okay with that, even if the negative energy coming off of Enjolras's body stings like fire.

As they walk, they take care to avoid sinister shadows that stretch too close. Enjolras reprimands Grantaire for drinking through his illness, for giving his friends such a scare. Grantaire has to laugh about that and remind Enjolras that he didn't do it on purpose; he hadn't downed the liquor in an attempt to kill himself. Enjolras continues to scold him, though, and Grantaire thinks that maybe he hears a hint of worry in there. That thought keeps him warm in the chilly night air.

That and the wine in his blood, of course.

Eventually, Enjolras's words no longer chide. They argue a bit, about politics, about life. Enjolras seems weary and sometimes even annoyed, but his words are strong and enchanting. They twist around Grantaire like a siren's song, pulling him closer.

The night is strangly comfortable, despite the filth adorning the streets and the looks they get from terrifying men in the shadows, but tiredness takes them both soon enough. Enjolras asks, mostly seriously, if the alchohol has impaired Grantaire enough to require some help getting home. Grantaire laughs at that, of course, and claims he is no delicate maiden. He can walk himself home.

Before he turns to go, he tips the bottle in his hand toward Enjolras in some kind of farewell gesture, and goes to take a drink. His arm is stopped before the motion is complete, though, and it's a wonder he manages to not spill any of the wine. 

Enjolras holds onto his forearm with a sturdy grip. His other hand wraps around the bottle, around Grantaire's fingers, and Grantaire feels like he's being burned alive. Just like his last dream.

“I feel it would be for the best if I took this with me,” Enjolras says, and damned if Grantaire doesn't want to spit something snide back at him.

Instead he settles for a flat, “You do not drink.”

“Astute as always, Grantaire, but I think you understand me.”

There is a caustic comment just begging to be spat out, but Grantaire finds he cannot say it. He sighs a bit, and akwardly pulls his hand out from under Enjolras's. The grip on his forarm tightens a bit before releasing, and then Enjolras is off without a goodbye.

Grantaire makes his way back home with no more wine to provide warmth. He doesn't need it, though, as the memory of Enjolras's hands upon him sparks small fires all over his skin.

-

Paris is silent. Her buildings reach up so high that they get lost in the clouds. They are full of holes, charred wood, broken windows, but the imperfections show Grantaire the sun through the gaps and rifts.

There is garbage in the streets and each inhale sends dust into his lungs, but Grantaire keeps wandering down the road. He climbs over broken chairs and writing desks and dressers that block his way, careful not to fall into the splintering wood. He walks for ages and doesn't find another living soul.

The farther he walks, the more grass and flowers he sees in between the stones of the street. Roots start pushing through cracks in the foundation of appartments and general stores. After a while, all of the buildings are covered in moss and vines. The wood in the furniture piles twist into vines and trees and bushes. Before long, Grantaire is climbing trees instead of flimsy barricades.

Suddenly, he comes to a dead end. Two massive trees sit on either side of the road, effectively destroying the cobblestones with their roots. Thornbushes stretch between them like a barbed-wire fence. Grantaire doesn't hesitate, he just starts pushing aside the tangled branches. The farther he travels into the maze of thorns, the darker it gets. His hands are sore and bleeding and his trousers wont stop snagging. It's more annoying than it is painful, but he doesn't turn back.

Grantaire sees a light then, burning dimly through the shadowed labyrinth. He moves quickly through the branches, not caring when his hair gets caught or his face gets pricked. He crawls so quickly and eagerly that he doesn't notice the end of the branches quickly come up on him, and he tumbles forward out into an opening.

There he finds his beacon, his light in the darkness, his Enjolras. The man is slumbering soundly in the dirt without a smudge on him. He looks so vulnerable and docile in sleep that Grantaire feels like a voyeur or a predator. He almost turns and crawls back through the thorns out of shame, but finds he is captivated by Enjolras's innocence and radiance. He sits next to the man, but does not touch.

It's Enjolras who does the touching. He wakes at some point, and hooks a pinky between two of Grantaire's fingers. His other fingers roam across Grantaire's bony knuckles like he's trying to read braille, like Grantaire is a puzzle he's trying to figure out.

He stands up, his hand still attached to Grantaire's, and starts walking toward the patch of thorns. Grantaire is afraid, he doesn't want to get sliced up again, but Enjolras isn't letting go of his hand. He moves through the branches quickly and efficiantly, pushing aside thorns like they aren't _digging into his skin_. Grantaire stays close behind him, trying to avoid the small daggers.

When the reach the other side, Grantaire is surprised to see they're not in Paris like he thought they'd be. They're on a grassy clifside overlooking a ruined city. Grantaire is also surprised to see Enjolras made it through the thorns without pricking himself once.

But of course, statues do not bleed.

Enjolras drops Grantaire hand in a careless way, as if he'd never been holding it, and walks to the edge of the cliff. Grantaire follows behind like a lost animal looking for a home. They sit with their legs dangling in the open air above the ruins.

“You are not drunk,” Enjolras says, though he sounds distracted. Grantaire looks over at him and sees he is looking across the rubble and filth like someone else would look at a coffin at a funeral. There is anger and grief and disapointment in the tension in his jaw, in the crease between his eyebrows.

Grantaire clears his throat. “It is just a city-”

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras grinds out, and Grantaire loses whatever else he was going to say down the back of his throat. Instead of talking, he flops back into the grass and looks up at the sky. The clouds swirl angrily overhead, but the sky shine brightly behind them. It's purple and pink and the stars are spread across it like dust in the sunlight. For a moment, Grantaire understands Jehan's poetry.

“Enjolras,” he mutters, tugging at the other man's shirtsleeve, “Look up. Paris might be reduced to an empty shithole, but the stars have not abandoned your precious France just yet.”

Enjolras raises his head, slowly, until his face is turned toward the heavens and his curls are hanging down past his shoulders. Grantaire feels intoxicated at once. He pushes himself up and tries to keep the shaking from his hands. Purple and pink are reflecting in Enjolras's eyes, and Grantaire feels himself robbed of breath. 

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, and Enjolras doesn't spare him a glance. That will not do. Grantaire leans foreward and bumps his face against Enjolras's like a needy cat. When that doesn't arouse a reaction, he quickly pecks the corner of Enjolras's mouth.

That gets a reaction.

Enjolras turns his head away from the sky and shoves Grantaire away with a disgruntled moan. Grantaire feels giddy, like the buzz of alchohol is dancing around in his veins. Enjolras's hands are on his shoulder, keeping him at a distance, and the touch exhilerates him. He leans against the reistance and brings his hands up to delicately hold Enjolras's neck.

When he kisses Enjolras full on the mouth, he isn't pushed away. He isn't kissed back, either, but Grantaire feels victorious anyway. He crowds Enjolras but does not demand, kissing softly as if asking a question. _Is this alright_? Enjolras moves his hand down to Grantaire's sleeves and takes the fabric in a white-knuckled grip. He doesn't push, he doesn't pull. He simply holds.

Grantaire hesitantly pulls back and looks at Enjolras through a haze of ecstasy. The man no longer appears as marble, but soft and warm. Pink and purple are still swiring in his irises as if heaven itself was inside of him.

Smiling, Grantaire falls back into the grass. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers again, but his eyes are closed. 

And then someone swats the back of his head with a newspaper. 

“Wake up, wake up, the funeral procession is in an hour!”

Grantaire jerks his head up at the sound of Marius's voice. He's slightly disoriented and his eyes are failing to focus, but he still manages a quick glare in the bastards direction. That was shaping up to be a pretty nice dream.

He's stretching out his cramped limbs when someone comes up behind him and crams a hat onto his head. He can feel his tangled hair bunching up uncomfortably under the cap, but his annoyance dissolves when he hears the strong voice in his ear. 

“You're going to join us then today?”

A smile spreads across Grantaire's face like blood seeping through fabric. He makes a concentrated effort to not blush as he says, “I would not miss it for the world.”

When he turns to look at Enjolras, he finds out he's being studied. The eyes boring into him are cold, hard, statuesque. Grantaire has to keep his gaze from wandering too far down, has to keep himself from saying something stupid. _I just dreamt of kissing you_. That would go over well.

Enjolras apparently has enough of looking at Grantaire's face. He turns abruptly and walks off with Grantaire calling out behind him.

“I even wore my finest waistcoat!”

“You've been wearing that waistcoat for four days,” someone jibes, and Grantaire laughs. Today is going to be interesting alright, and Grantaire is decidedly far too sober to face it. He sets out on a quest for wine before he is dragged off to disrupt the peace.

-

“Interesting” is certianly one word for today. Grantaire is almost positive he and most of his friends are going to die, but for what? He gets slightly drunk and seeks Enjolras out for an answer.

“The fact that you're asking me that shows how little you understand,” is what he gets in reply. Perfect. He's going to die and Enjolras still regaurds him with nothing but scorn. Grantaire slinks away like an abused animal to sit on a damp bit of solid wood sticking out from the barricade. He sits away form the others, because sulking is easier when you don't have the eyes of your closest friends upon you.

 _Someone_ doesn't get the hint. Not long after he cracks into some wine, Enjolras takes a seat on the barricade just above him. Grantaire raises his bottle in a toast to lives lost on foolish idealism. All of his friends, his beautiful, wonderful friends, may very well perish on this barricade.

Enjolras watches Grantaire in pensive silence. There is a question in the way he leans close to examine Grantaire, and Grantaire wants nothing more than to shout _out with it, for god's sake_! But he cannot be rough with Enjolras right now, not even in words.

After silence stretches to an uncomfortable degree, Grantaire gives up. He turns away to takes a long drink from his bottle, and Enjolras climbs down from the pile to kneel in front of him. It's strange, sort of surreal, and Grantaire isn't sure of what to make of Enjolras below him.

Enjolras begins to speak. “Is there nothing,” he begins, “Nothing in your _entire life_ that you hold dear enough to fight for?”

“Fighting and dying are two different things,” Grantaire rasps out. All the moisture in his throat seems to have gone to his eyes. He feels ridiculous, sitting there trying not to cry in front of his idol. He doesn't even know where his tears are coming from.

Pity twists Enjolras's face into something unpleasant, and Grantaire frantically shakes his head. _I do not want this, I do not need your sympathy_. A stray tear escapes and leaves a trail of ugly remorse in it's wake. Enjolras brings a hand up to his cheek quickly, thumbing at the wet spot, and Grantaire holds the hand to his face like a lifeline.

Through his grief-roughened throat, he speaks below a whisper. _I would die for you_. He is unsure if Enjolras hears him, he doesn't care at this point. After a moment of silence he is pulled forward a bit, just enough so that he and Enjolras are forehead to forehead. It's strange and intimate and makes Grantaire shiver.

They're close, too close, and Grantaire wants to scream. He wants to ask Enjolras if he is forgiven, if he is accepted. He wants to damn Enjolras to Hell for being so driven and passionate and sure and wonderful. He wants to grab Enjolras's face and kiss him right there in the shadows of the barricade. He wants to tell Enjolras that there is something wrong with him, that he is utterly infatuated with someone who he can never have for fear of soiling them. 

He wants to be _fixed_ , goddammit, wants to be something of worth to Enjolras. Wants to be something Enjolras deserves.

But he says nothing, does nothing, and Enjolras moves to pull away. Grantaire panics, because its hard to think straight when the center of your universe is about to leave you sitting alone on a damp piece of wood lodged in a giant pile of furniture. Without thinking, he gets his fingers around Enjolras's loose cravat, just enough to hold the man still, and tentatively kisses the corner of Enjolras's mouth. It's quick and light, so light that it almost doesn't count as a kiss.

Grantaire leans back and braces himself for rejection, a slap in the face, maybe some shouting and disgust. He doesn't brace himself for the small smile on Enjolras's face or the soft understanding in Enjolras's eyes. 

This is quite unexpected.

Enjolras still makes a move to stand and walk away, but Grantaire reaches out once more. Enjolras stops, as if unafraid of more advances. Grantaire does not kiss him, though. He looks down at the bottle in his hand and sighs, pressing it to Enjolras's breast. Enjolras accepts it, slowly, and rewards Grantaire with another smile. Then he walks away, and Grantaire seeks out a place to rest so he can avoid an emotional breakdown.

- 

It's a ballroom. A massive ballroom. With about seven chandeliers.

There are tons of people dancing around who seem terribly unfit to be in a massive ballroom with about seven chandeliers. Everyone looks slightly haggard and dirty. A few people are bleeding. But that's not stoping them from dancing.

Grantaire is currently dancing with Courfeyrac. Over Courfeyrac's shoulder Grantaire can see some of his other friends as well. Most of the faces are blurred and unfamiliar, but he can make out Joly and Jehan and Bossuet and Bahorel. Combeferre and Enjolras seem to be enjoying a nice walz. Grantaire isn't jealous in the least, because Courfeyrac is an excellent partner.

But their dance ends soon, and Courfeyrac seeks out Jehan. Grantaire tries to catch Enjolras, but someone else starts leading him in a dance before he gets the chance. Hello Bossuet. When their dance is finished, Grantaire is passed to an unfamiliar girl with a boy's clothes and sad eyes. He makes an effort to cheer her up, and she gives him a sad little smile that says _thanks for trying_. Then he moves to dance with Combeferre, with Joly, even little Gavroche tries to spin him in circles at one point. He forgets about Enjolras until Marius tries to dance with him.

They get about four steps in before Enjolras comes up behind Marius. He whispers _excuse me, may I borrow you partner for a dance?_ and Marius replies _yes, of course_ and steps away from Grantare with a smile. Marius is quickly taken into Courfeyrac's arms and Enjolras and Grantaire are left to dance.

So they dance. Enjolras doesn't have Courfeyrac's playful charm or Joly and Jehan's delicate appeal, but there is a sureness to his steps. He leads Grantaire with effortless finesse like his passion for revolution has transformed into a passion for dance. And with Enjolras leading him, Grantaire moves more greacefully than he has all evening.

No, he moves more gracefully than he has in his entire life. 

When their dance comes to an end, Grantaire reluctantly starts to pull away. He stops when Enjolras's hands move to his waist, keeping him still. Nearvousness grips him by the throat as the pressure to impress Enjolras swamps him. He brings his hands up to Enjolras's shoulders as he is pulled closer. They're almos nose to nose now, and Grantaire fears he might swoon like a maiden.

“Did you mean what you said to me before?” Enjolras asks, snapping Grantaire out of his anxious thoughts. He's confused for a minute, doesn't know what Enjolras is talking about. Skirts and long coats brush against their legs as the world turns around them, but they stay still. 

“I mean everything I say to you,” Grantaire mummbles back. He slowly moves his hands until his arms are wrapped around Enjolras's neck. He can feel the heat in his face, thinks his blush must be obvious, and it makes him feel like an idoit. 

Grantaire stuffs his face into Enjolras's neck to try to hide some of his uneasiness. His hands are shaking and his stomach is trying to crawl its way up his throat, but he never wants this to end. There is just _so much_ wamth here in Enjolras's embrace, and the sounds of his friends laughing and hollering all around him fill him with contentment and joy.

He'd be perfectly happy to stand there hugging Enjolras forever, but a nose bumps into his temple, urging him too look up. And when he does, Enjolras has a queer sort of smile on his face. It's unreadable and unfamiliar but Grantaire will take anything he can get. Then the smile wavers slightly, and Enjolras bows his head a few inches to kiss Grantaire.

That's it. Grantaire is fairly certain he's going to die.

Or at least faint. He doesn't even kiss back at first, he just stands there like an idoit and wonders if Enjolras is a demon sent to tempt him or something. After the initial disbelief (and fear) comes another wave of anxiety. He panics a little, trying not to hyperventilate, and Enjolras just peppers his face with small kisses. Then comes the excitement, the euphoria. Grantaire kisses Enjolras cautiously at first, like Enjolras will suddenly change his mind. He does grow bolder, but stays (relitively) chaste, because he couldn't handle tarnishing Enjolras with lustfullness.

 He pulls back and lets Enjolras bump their foreheads together. His veins feel like they're full of electricity, his heart is trying to jump from his chest. Grantaire brings his face back down to Enjolras's throat again and smells all of the blood and dust and sweat. He brings his hands down to Enjolras's coat and squeezes the fabric, feels each stitch and smudge of dirt like they are a part of Enjolras himself. And when Grantaire pulls his hands away, they're stained red.

He looks up at Enjolras, who grimaces down at him. He wants to say _no, no it is okay, I am glad to be marked like this,_ but he suddenly becomes aware of the silence suurounding him. The laugher of his friends is no longer filling the ballroom.

Grantaire jerks back to see he and Enjolras are alone. The floor, once pure and shining, is dirtied with ash and blood. Grantaire screams names into the emptiness, _Joly! Bahorel! Combeferre! Jehan!_ \- and the sound doesn't even echo. 

Enjolras grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around, moving to cup his face with strong steady fingers. Grantaire latches onto him as if he'd be lost without those hands upon his body. Of course, Enjolras does not look afraid. He looks determined. His mouth moves as if speaking, but Grantaire cannot hear over the silence. Enjolras seems to understand this, seems to feel Grantaire's fear. He leans in and kisses Grantaire square on the forehead, and then vanishes.

And Grantaire is left all alone. The silence reverberates in his head until he feels sick, until he can't handle it any longer. 

Until he wakes up. 

Grantaire blinks the sleep from his eyes pretty quickly considering the fact that it feels like there's a rock in his head. Standing up, he sees the National Guardsmen and their rifles with their bayonets and it's all rather distressing. And of course, he see's Enjolras.

Standing there, he is suddenly gripped with a sensation that is entirely _Enjolras_. He is destroying Enjolras, who is made of marble and stone. He is running to catch Enjolras as he falls. He is ruining Enjolras with his acrid tears. He is on fire, burning with the feeling of Enjolras surrounding him. He is discovering Enjolras in the innocence of sleep. He is kissing Enjolras as the man sits enraptured with his beautiful France. He is dancing with Enjolras, and kissing Enjolras, and holding onto Enjolras as if he were the last thing left on Earth. He is losing Enjolras, just as he lost everyone else. He is in love with Enjolras.

Grantaire moves forward with steady steps, as if his blood wasn't practically pure alcohol at this point. He says words without thinking, and for once Enjolras doesn't look at him with disdain; he looks almost proud. Grantaire takes Enjolras's hand, or maybe Enjolras takes his. It doesn't matter at this point, doesn't mean a goddamn thing. Grantaire smiles at the most beautiful creature he has ever know, and gets a smile in return. 

And then he is dying with Enjolras, dying for Enjolras. Their blood runs together along the floorboards, and it's the most perfect death Grantaire could ask for.


End file.
